


Fading Lights

by Kannika



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Stoncy Week, Stoncy Week 2020, post-season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23901586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kannika/pseuds/Kannika
Summary: “Maybe,” Jonathan says, so softly it’s almost lost in the sound of his breathing. “Maybe she loves both of us.”But he doesn’t make it sound like a problem. He sounds… hopeful.Steve sighs. "That's against the rules.""And?"
Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 6
Kudos: 121





	Fading Lights

**Author's Note:**

> I love all the Stranger Things hurt/comfort possibilities. These kids deserve happiness. 
> 
> This is for Stoncy Week day two- "I called you at two AM because I need you".

Steve wakes, and for a second, he doesn’t know where he is, or what woke him. It’s too dark, not even past dawn, but there’s a little light coming through the window. It’s flickering. Flickering all different colors, like Christmas lights—

He sits straight up, scrambling to throw the covers off, and lands in a heap on his floor. It doesn’t matter; he throws the covers up, pulls out the baseball bat full of nails that he kept after he left the Byers house from under the bed. Jonathan looked a little annoyed, at the time, because Steve did help them but he also barged into his house without asking; Steve had been prepared to swing it at his head if he brought it up, because Jonathan _had_ punched him in the face and he didn’t fucking sign up to fight a monster when he went to try to make up. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t said anything when Nancy pocketed the gun that had to be his, either. Jonathan probably had something, too. It made it easier to leave, to be alone when his adrenaline made his heart resonate through his whole body like a drumbeat, when he nearly crashed his car because it looked like there was something in the back seat. 

By the time he has the bat out, though, the lights are fading, driving away— they were police lights, the red and blue illuminating the street outside. His room is dark again in a second. No flickering lights. There is no monster here. 

_But it hunts at night. And it can come through the ceiling, from anywhere, and you wouldn’t even see it coming…_

Steve bolts for the light switch; with the light on, and definitely not flickering, and his bat in his hands, he feels stable again, but also wide awake, buzzing. He wouldn’t have expected that, when he fought the Demogorgon— that fighting leaves scars, but that it also leaves an impression that he was made for it. It makes sense. People used to fight to survive, real battles instead of the marshmallow fluff that made up his problems before he knew there was another dimension, and when he remembers that night, sometimes he longs for that high again. Not the danger that caused it, but the high. 

He’s seen the same look in Nancy’s eyes, sometimes, when she puts her hand on the gun that she keeps in her nightstand now. She’s watching for something to come for her again, but there’s a part of her that wants it to so she can kill it. 

He doesn’t know if Jonathan has it. They haven’t spoken much. Jonathan steers clear of Steve. He’s a reminder, maybe, of the worst week of his life. He understands that. 

He drops the bat, slumps against the wall, and tries to make himself turn the lights back off. Can’t. If the lights are on he can’t sleep, but if the lights are off he won’t know he’s safe. And why were the police driving by, anyways? It’s Hawkins. Nothing happens in Hawkins, not except…

Fuck it, he’s not sleeping now, and now he needs to _know._

He runs for the downstairs phone, flipping every light on as he passes. Maybe the neighbors will think he’s having another party. The thought nearly makes him laugh as he gets the phone in his hand but it gets stuck in his throat. That feels like someone else. A twin that died when he found out monsters were real. 

But now that he has the phone, he doesn’t know who to call. The obvious choice is Nancy, but they’re… still figuring it out. He misunderstood, but it’s still no excuse for telling everyone she was a slut, and she hasn’t fully forgiven him. He can’t say he blames her. He’s trying everything to show her that he wants them to get back together but she keeps her distance. She’s mourning, too, so he tries to give her space. 

But he needs to talk to _someone,_ someone who understands, and he pulls out the phone book and flips through it quickly. He doesn’t know if he’s ever called Jonathan. Old Steve wouldn’t have had a reason to. He’s not entirely sure it will be welcome, now, but… they might be okay. He doesn’t know. 

Hopefully. He dials and crosses his fingers. 

Someone answers the phone after the second ring. “Hello?” Jonathan says, and he sounds breathless, like he ran for it. “Byers residence.” 

It’s two in the morning, Steve realizes abruptly, feeling like smacking himself upside the head. Who the hell calls someone at two in the morning? Too late. “Um… hi.” 

He can _hear_ Jonathan processing. “Steve?” 

He doesn’t need to sound so incredulous, Steve thinks indignantly. Although if Jonathan was calling him, he might feel the same way. “Yeah. Hi. It’s Steve. Sorry, I forgot what time it was.” 

“Is something wrong?” 

“No.” And then he remembers the police lights, hears the siren in the distance. “Well. I don’t think so. A cop car just drove by, so. Maybe.”

“Hm. Hang on.” There’s a few seconds of silence, and then Jonathan gets back on the phone. “I think it’s okay. Will’s still sleeping.” 

He was making sure Will was safe when he wasn’t sure if they were. Steve can only imagine how many times he and his mom must do that, must wake up in a panic and instead of grabbing for a weapon go to check that he hasn’t been taken again. “Good,” Steve says, and the panic in his chest is starting to loosen, muscle by muscle. “Good. I figured it was, but…” 

“Yeah. I get it.” 

Apparently Jonathan has the same scars that he and Nancy have. He doesn’t know why he didn’t think about that. He just… assumed he was different. He had always been so different when they were in school, quiet where everyone else was loud, watching where everyone else was participating, maybe it just seemed he would heal where the rest of them still hurt.

His house is so silent; Steve presses his lips together, tries to imagine that he’s just up because he doesn’t need any more sleep. Like a normal person. It doesn’t work, when he can tell by the absence of any noise outside that he’s beaten everyone else in the neighborhood by several hours. “Sorry for waking you up.” 

“You didn’t.” Jonathan laughs, a quiet chuckle that sounds much louder through the phone. “I was already awake.” 

Steve frowns. “The police woke me up. What woke you up?” 

“…I don’t think I’ve slept yet,” he admits after a moment. “I stay up late now.” 

“Because…” 

“I don’t know. It just… it was here.” 

Steve closes his eyes, shivering slightly. He imagines the Demogorgon coming through his ceiling often enough; he doesn’t envy Jonathan at all, who has to walk past the place where it actually emerged every day. No wonder he’s not sleeping. “Sorry.” 

“Not your fault. I’m the idiot who brought it here and tried to fight it.” He scoffs, exhales too loudly. “I mean, what was I thinking? I almost got Nancy killed, and it was— it was—" 

It was right on him. Steve remembers— doesn’t want to remember. “It wasn’t stupid. You were prepared.” 

“I _wasn’t._ ” He laughs again, with more of an edge. “I thought we were, but it was so _stupid,_ and I don’t know why I did it!” 

He’s panicking, Steve recognizes too late. He’ll blame the lack of sleep, and the fact that he’s never heard Jonathan panic before. “Hey,” he says sharply to get his attention. “Don’t wake up Will.” 

He wasn’t sure if he was even listening, it kind of feels like a douche move to drag his brother into it, but it works. Jonathan breathes out, louder, the phone clogging with static. “Okay. Okay, sorry. I just… I can’t believe it happened, sometimes.” 

“I usually can’t believe it.” Steve fights with himself, and then says on a whim, “And it wasn’t stupid. You bought time for your mom to find Will. Remember?” 

“Yeah. Maybe. They might have been okay without my help.” 

“Or they might not have. So shut up already.” 

Jonathan laughs, slightly more normal. “You’re not very good at this.” 

“Sorry.” But it’s good to hear him laughing, so Steve laughs, too. “I don’t have practice. No younger brothers.” 

“Right.” Jonathan hesitates a second. “But you talk to Nancy. Right?” 

That’s an open wound. Steve feels the sting when he says, “Not really.” 

“…Sorry.” 

He doesn’t want to fight with Jonathan, he reminds himself. Jonathan and him both did stupid things, but he lost Nancy all on his own. “It’s fine. We’re still talking, just… she doesn’t call at night. Does she call you?” 

“Sometimes,” Jonathan admits. “I told her I’m already awake. So she doesn’t feel bad calling in the middle of the night.” 

“Is that who you thought was calling when I called?”

“Maybe. Or my mom. She’s working late. Or early. Whatever.” 

Steve feels a little better, now that he can think straight again. “Right. Maybe I’ll tell her I’m awake, too. So she has another option.” 

“You’re not, though,” Jonathan says. “But yeah, I think that’ll help.” 

He sounds genuinely glad to hear that Steve and Nancy are going to talk, and Steve feels terrible for assuming that he was trying to steal Nancy. It sounds dirty to even think it like that. Nancy makes her own choices just like the rest of them, and in retrospect it was stupid to even think they were trying to hook up when Barb and Will were missing. If he could go back in time, he would do so many things different. 

But he would still run back to the Byers house, in every version he can think of, and he’s not sure what that says about him. 

“Are you still there?” Jonathan asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Just… thinking. About Nancy.” 

Jonathan’s quiet for a second. 

“She still loves you, you know.” 

His heart squeezes in his chest. He says the words like they’re precious, like it’s a treasure he’s handing Steve. But how well Jonathan clicked with Nancy, how she talks to him late at night and looks for him in school, what he saw through her window that night… it doesn’t make sense.

“I don’t know,” Steve says, and even as he’s thinking it, it crystallizes, becomes something obvious he can’t believe he didn’t say before now. “I think she loves you.” 

Jonathan sucks in a quick breath, but doesn’t answer. Steve wishes they were having this conversation face to face, so he could see him and figure out what he was thinking, but knows at the same time that they wouldn’t be talking about it at all if they were actually together. There’s something about the silence, the distance, the early morning, how much of the conversation is left up to the imagination, that makes it seem less real. He wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up tomorrow and found that he had dreamed the whole thing up. 

“Maybe,” Jonathan says, so softly it’s almost lost in the sound of his breathing. “Maybe she loves both of us.” 

But he doesn’t make it sound like a problem. He sounds… hopeful. 

Steve sighs, scrubbing his eyes, suddenly exhausted enough to go back to sleep. His heart hurts and he doesn’t know what he _wants._ “That’s against the rules.” 

“And?” 

He makes it sound so simple. And Steve knows what he’s thinking, because he’s thinking it too, knows Nancy is thinking it when they hang out the three of them at lunch and she pays equal attention to both of them and avoids eye contact with either. The rules flipped upside down that night, when they learned that there were other dimensions and creatures they couldn’t explain. When they learned what it was like to fear, to be brave, to make choices and face consequences, and keep on standing. His parents have known him his whole life but they don’t know about the buzzing in his veins when he picks up a baseball bat that is going to keep him from ever playing the sport again, the reason why he bought a camera with his Christmas money, the way his stomach turns when he sees roadkill while he’s driving. Even the ones who know the truth of that night wouldn’t _understand._ And if there’s one certainty that tells him there are no rules anymore, it’s the fact that the only people that understand him are Nancy Wheeler, his maybe-girlfriend who can’t stand to sleep with him again, and Jonathan Byers, who beat him up in an alley. 

_Maybe there are no rules anymore._ He wants Jonathan to tell him that. To give him the permission to do something utterly, completely stupid. 

He doesn’t. He sighs, and the moment has passed. “I’m going to fail my test tomorrow.” 

Steve could have said it, he realizes, maybe Jonathan is waiting for permission, too… But it’s gone. “Which test?”

“Algebra. I hate math. I’m going to be a photographer, I don’t need to know math.” 

Steve grins, leans against the wall and slides down to sit on the floor. “Which teacher? I can probably get you the test.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“I know people. Which topic? There might be a copy of last year’s test in my notebook, or Tommy or Carol’s. I can hook you up.” 

Jonathan snorts. “You sound like a drug dealer.” 

“Answer the question, Byers. I promise to only take one kidney as payment.” 

He can do this, Steve thinks, listening to Jonathan laughing through the line. He can move past this. He can get better. He can get to the point where he doesn’t grab for his bat when he hears a noise and he doesn’t panic when he sees flickering lights. He can help Nancy and they can grow stronger for it the way normal couples do. He can find a place in his life for Jonathan, who lets him call him at two in the morning like a crazy person and laughs with him like they’ve known each other forever. 

He can do this. One phone call at a time, maybe, but he can.


End file.
